


A Star Is Born Is Made

by TheOnlyCoffeeIsStrongCoffee



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: A lot - Freeform, Agent Finn, Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Ben doesn't have a filter when he's drunk, Ben likes to swear, F/M, Falling in love at the workplace, Gen, In which Kylo Ren tries to remake A Star Is Born, Ingenue Rey, Kylo Ren Needs a Hug, Kylo Ren being crushed under the weight of his family legacy, Life Imitating Art, Lots of smut at some point, M/M, Meta wank, Rey can outswear him, Rey has a spine of steel, Snoke as a Harvey Weinstein-like figure, So there will be accompanying tags being updated as his fuckery is revealed, The workplace in question is a massive movie set, a star is born au, meta af, misanthrope Ben
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 04:03:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17615102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOnlyCoffeeIsStrongCoffee/pseuds/TheOnlyCoffeeIsStrongCoffee
Summary: VARIETYApril 2nd, 2016 12.07pm PTFirst Order Studios to Remake A Star Is Born, Kylo Ren to Make Directorial Debut (EXCLUSIVE)By Maz KanataFirst Order Studios have officially greenlit the long-rumoured remake of A Star Is Born, with studio favourite and triple Academy Award nomineeKylo Renattached to direct in his feature directorial debut, Variety has exclusively learned. The hope is for Ren to also star.The project, previously stuck in development hell for the better part of ten years appears to have been given a new lease of life at the behest of First Order founder and Chief ExecutiveSir Leonard Snoke KBE.Once Ren’s deal is done, FO’s first stop will be to find their female lead. It’s understood that Ren’s former fiancee, the model-cum-actress of the moment, Bazine Netal, was campaigning for the part at one point, although their recent split makes this an unlikely professional partnership.Ren will also take a pass at the script withArmitage Hux, who wrote the most recent draft and who also authored the screenplay of Ren’s most recent shot at Academy glory, Starkiller (2015).





	A Star Is Born Is Made

**Author's Note:**

> So, here is the wildly self-indulgent A Star is Born AU that no-one asked for.
> 
> Huge thanks to [The Reylo Writing Den](https://thereylowritingden.tumblr.com/) for the advice and encouragement (enabling?).
> 
> In particular, [LoveofEscapism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveofEscapism/pseuds/LoveofEscapism), [Sciosophia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciosophia/pseuds/sciosophia) and [Waffles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceWaffleHouseTM/pseuds/SpaceWaffleHouseTM) for the meta and nomenclature suggestions for Snoke.
> 
> Some details of this fic (the interspersing of articles and other small details) were inspired by [Diasterisms’](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diasterisms/pseuds/diasterisms) seminal Reylo Hollywood AU, _ghostwalks (gin and fog)_. You should all go and immediately check out her back catalogue of work right now if you haven’t already, because reading her stories is a religious experience. _Landscape With a Blur of Conquerors_ is so rich and layered it changed my entire perspective on the Star Wars extended universe (may she rest in peace).

**February 18th 2016**

**The Dolby Theatre, Hollywood**

 

Kylo grinds his teeth, rocking on his heels at the choke point of the red carpet just before the first wall of photographers, a holding pen of A-list talent and their entourages waiting for their turn to jump on the conveyor belt of spotlights that will ferry them through the doors of the Dolby Theatre.

He scuffs his shoe against the base of an oversized Oscar statue, a solid fifteen feet in height and yet it wobbles in protest of his weight. _Movie magic_.

He glances at his agent, deep in conversation with one of the red carpet ushers and surreptitiously sneaks another piece of extra strength, menthol gum.

“Phasma told you not to chew gum at events,” a bored voice says from his left.

Bazine is mechanically flicking through instagram, her talon-like nails clacking against the glass and scouring the coverage of the #Oscars2016 tag for any mention of her name. Never mind that they had arrived all of fifteen minutes ago.

“Oh no. She did?” he deadpans, knocking back two more sticks just for the hell of it. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Could you _not_ be a dick, today? For fucks sake, call yourself a fucking actor,” she hisses through a smile, adjusting his bowtie in what will appear as a nurturing show of affection in any candids. “You could at least _try_ to not look like you want to slash your wrists before the opening monologue.”

“And you say you don’t know me,” he smirks, watching a sweetly pretty Swedish actress in a butter-yellow dress step in front of the firing squad.

“ _Do not_ fucking scowl when we’re pictured together,” Bazine warns, her eyes flashing as she stows her phone in her bright gold clutch. “Tonight is the biggest casting opportunity I will ever have, these pictures will be my defacto headshots from now on when people mention my name and I will _not_ have you screw this up with your tortured artist _bullshit_.”

Kylo makes a show of languidly chewing his gum, a cow grinding cud. He distantly remembers that being an exercise in one of his elementary school drama classes; ‘ _pretend to be a farm animal_ ’, their hippy of a teacher declared. Who would’ve thought it would actually be put to good use?

“Here I was thinking this was my night, me being nominated and all. My mistake.”

“ _Jesus_ _Christ_ , Kylo, I swear to God I will —”

“Children,” an icy voice interrupts. Steam is practically coming out of Bazine’s ears at this point, as she starts to complain to Phasma.

Kylo blinks.

He zones out entirely as Phasma turns to him, raising a hand in idle greeting as a former teen-starlet-turned-indie-darling drifts into view. Kylo had worked with her on some fragrance campaign for a friend of Snoke’s, one of the big French fashion houses looking to appeal to a younger demographic. Kylo liked her; she was fun, shared her weed, had interesting opinions on 20th century American playwrights and was down for a casual fuck.

“ _Kylo_ ,” Phasma snaps her fingers. He turns his head enough to show that he’s listening. Phasma lowers her voice just enough to still be audible over the din of camera snaps and people shouting.

“It’s been a long season, I _know_. But this is the last hurdle, and depending on the outcome tonight, these pictures will matter. You’ll be the winner who didn’t give a shit, or the loser who’d resigned himself to his fate.”

He rolls his eyes. ‘ _Resigned himself to his fate’._ It’s a chunky bit of metal in the shape of a man that doesn’t have a cock. He’s thankfully wise enough to not say this aloud where there are hot mics absolutely everywhere, but nonetheless, it matters. He of all people knows how much this ultimately _matters_.

“Relax, Phasma,” he says, swallowing his gum and turning on the bashful, half-smile that looks like it reaches his eyes. “You say that like I haven’t been here twice before.”

“Kylo Ren?” a harried usher with a headset exclaims, pointing with her clipboard to the first marked spot on the red carpet. “You’re up. We’re running a little behind, so give it ten seconds or so at the first mark, and keep on at that pace all the way down to the camera crew, you’ll have E! waiting for you.”

Kylo nods his thanks and starts to walk. “Not the E I’m after, but it’ll do,” he winks at the usher. She rolls her eyes and dissolves into the crowd.

Bazine makes to follow him before Phasma takes her wrist. “Hold it there, missy. He has solo shots first, then you join him at the third mark. When he goes to the camera crew you can continue on your own.”

“I’m missing the first two spots?!” she says aghast. This is just not Bazine’s day.

“I’m sure you’ll make up for lost time,” she mutters, watching as Kylo does his ‘hates-the-cameras-but-appears-to-be-trying’ act, as opposed to just the ‘hates-the-cameras’ part of it. The former guarantees gushing Tumblr analyses of how the talent of a generation gamely plays his role in the fame machine, whereas the latter invites snarky footnotes at the bottom of round-up articles.

Phasma observes Kylo tightly smile and nod his goodbye to the photographers as he moves onto the second mark. Palms clasped, his watch visible, straight back, following the snappers’ calls . . . ‘ _not bad_ ’, she thinks.

“Alright. Off you go. Go get that IMDB profile picture or whatever it is you’re after,” Phasma waves Bazine away whilst checking the schedule on her phone.

With a toss of her hair, Bazine puts her catwalk pedigree to good use and struts away, making a beeline towards Kylo and turning on her Victoria’s Secret smile, the same one found on shopfronts in malls across the country.

She tucks herself into Kylo’s side, hand on her hip and engagement ring sparkling under the lightbulbs. She can just about feel his hand ghosting over her back.

They move onto the next spot, and Kylo smiles as she takes his hand. I _’m happy to be here_ he tells himself. _I’m happy to be here, I’m happy to be here._

Bazine adjusts, twisting this way and that, allowing for the optimal amount of leg to peek out from her choice of dress for the night - her legs, long and sun-baked, emerge from a dramatic slash in the fabric, the golden georgette artfully cut to show a generous amount of cleavage before gathering at the hip.

“The gold’s a bit on the nose, don’t you think?” he mutters in her ear.

“Oh shut up. Theme dressing is a surefire way to get a mention in the fashion round-up.”

Kylo spots Phasma hovering out of view of the cameras, gesturing towards the TV host.

“I’ll see you inside,” he mutters, leaving Bazine to do what she does best.

He runs a hand through his hair and adjusts a cufflink as he approaches the host, his watch glinting under the camera lights as he walks into shot. Phasma gives him a discreet thumbs up and waits by the water station.

He was going to smash that fucking watch at the end of the night.

“Kylo!” the host gleefully cries.

He smiles bashfully and leans in to talk to the diminutive host, suppressing a cough as he enters a cloud of hairspray. “Julia, good to see you.”

“And you! You’re looking very dashing tonight, can you tell us what you’re wearing?”

“A suit.”

Phasma winces, although thankfully the host tips her head back and laughs uproariously. _Now there’s a girl on uppers._

“No, uh, it’s Tom Ford,” he recovers.

He gamely answers the rote questions that get trotted out at every event like this; how it’s an _honour_ to be nominated, how glad he is the film is receiving the recognition it is, how overwhelmed the whole team is at the reception Starkiller has received.

He almost thinks he’s managed to get away unscathed before he sees the glint in the producers eye, hovering just behind the camera and staring at something over his shoulder, and he knows exactly what is about to happen.

“Oh! And here’s your lovely fiancee, Bazine!” Julia gushes, air-kissing Bazine before she drapes herself over his shoulders. _Fuck_ , he forgot they knew each other. This is going to drag on.

“I see you’re here supporting Kylo tonight, looking _very_ on theme, and gorgeous as always, whose design are you wearing tonight?”

“Alexandre Vauthier,” Bazine says with an accent.

“Dressed like that, are you Kylo’s lucky charm this evening? Hoping you’ll be taking home a mini version of yourself tonight?”

Kylo opens his mouth before Bazine places a hand on his chest, that giant, eyesore of a diamond fully on display before leaning into the microphone.

“I’m _so_ proud of him no matter what tonight’s outcome is, Julia, but they do say third time’s the charm, don’t they?” Bazine smiles almost manically, looking up at Kylo — daring him.

He forces a laugh, and pulls Bazine into his side, a hand on her waist. “Whatever will be will be,” he shrugs. “This is really San Tekka’s night, we’re all just set dressing in comparison. Thank you so much,” he turns sharply, pulling Bazine with him and falling into step next to Phasma.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, letting Bazine flounce off to the next photographers spot.

“She’s really making the most of that ring, isn’t she?”

“Can you—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m on it. Once you’re indoors I’ll see if I can manage a little chat with any editors I can find, see if I can’t get a head start on damage control for next month.”

 _One more month,_ he reminds himself. He and Phasma observe from their quiet spot by the water station, Bazine working the carpet for her life’s worth. He looks at Phasma, professionally sleek in a dark, tailored pant suit and her platinum hair slicked back.

He looks at Bazine. Almost a beat-for-beat repeat of when he had first seen her on a red carpet, her similarly bleached hair was pulled back in a severe pony tail, a longstanding point of contention she had between her and her stylist that the bald spot by her temple had better not show or so help her she would _cut_ someone.

What had first attracted her to him, what made her look so striking in photographs was all he could focus on; the sunken, cold eyes that catch the shadow of black and white film so well, the strong jaw that made her look gaunt and empty without liberal applications of cosmetics, the bumpy line between her cheeks and nose where she had gone a tad overboard with fillers, the blindingly white teeth she had had shaved down and replaced with veneers.

Kylo didn’t know just when he had started to consider her ugly, between her obsession with ‘perfection’ and the demands that people placate her every whim, didn’t know when he had turned into her mirror image of a superficial bitch himself, but god help him he couldn’t wait until this month was over.

Kylo turns at movement in his peripheral vision; Phasma had pulled her phone out, the sleek, silver case glinting under the lights and pointing it at the massive screen cycling through the headshots of the nominated actors.

_Rylance . . . Ruffalo . . . Bale . . . Ren._

He takes a proffered water bottle from Phasma, knocking back almost half of it in one go.

“Thirsty?” she asks with a raised eyebrow.

Kylo laughs bitterly. “I was joking about the E thing.”

“Just checking,” she shrugged. “You could be high as a kite at one of these things and you’d still look like a bulldog that swallowed a wasp.”

“Appreciate it, Phas.”

She mock salutes him with her own bottle.

Kylo sighs and pulls at his collar. “Let’s get this over with,” he says, his gaze on the film still projecting on the big screen; Kylo in character, his robes torn and a bloody sword dragging behind him in the snow, a trail of blood leading ever-encroaching enemies towards him. The wolves knocking at his door.

Now he’s willingly walking into their den.

A peppy song that’s more bass than melody kicks in and spotlights start to sweep across the Dolby Theatre. A small cheer goes up and ripples across the red carpet, and Kylo starts to walk towards the gilded maw of the theatre doors.

 

*****

 

The rest of the night passes in a blur of latent rage and alcohol. He dutifully makes an appearance at the Vanity Fair party, walks the red carpet with Bazine at his side after a change of outfit, graciously accepting the compliments and commiserations of various well-wishers with a grimace of a smile and a G&T in hand.

He had done everything. Every event, every handshake, every PR op, every advertising campaign Snoke had asked of him, he had run himself ragged playing to the tune of Snoke’s fiddle since Starkiller’s release in October. And now this was it.

Snoke was never going to let him go.

At some point after 1am, Kylo leaves his booth in the corner and an impressively wasted gaggle of superhero actors and slips out the service entrance, dumping his bowtie in a trashcan and slipping his jacket off.

Keeping his head down and his jacket slung over his shoulder, Kylo staggers down the sidewalk, his feet dragging over discarded In n’ Out wrappers and newspapers, accumulating muck he can’t be bothered to shake off.

He walks through throngs of revellers, their laughs and smiles stoking an unwarranted rage in him. He wants to punch them. He wants to punch their stupid, thoughtless, happy smiles off their faces, scream at them for having the audacity to be pleased and joyful because how fucking _dare_ they? Why are these moronic, tattooed kids, naive fools with half-baked screenplays who probably came to LA with delusions of grandeur like everybody else _happy_ when there are people like Snoke in the world? People they would gladly prostrate themselves in front of for a tiny slice of the pie, despite what they’ve done, despite what they _do_?

Kylo wants to scream at the world for not knowing, or knowing and not caring, he wants to raze this entire goddamn city to the ground for providing him with the materials to create a prison of his own making. He sees what looks suspiciously like a pack of tourists weaving down the street and ducks into the next open door he sees, a neon pink sign above proclaiming there’s ‘LIVE MUSIC & JAZZ’ inside.

The nineteen year old taking the cover charges blessedly has his back turned in his poky little office and Kylo skulks by, emerging into the club proper in a cloud of cigarette and vape smoke. He briefly wonders how they get away with blatantly ignoring the smoking ban before he sees the forest green sign; ‘TAKODANA CASTLE’.

Fucking brilliant. He half considers going back outside and braving the tourists instead.

To add insult to injury, he finally takes notice of the chalk sign with ‘OPEN NIGHT OSCAR NIGHT — 02.18 — 8 TIL LATE’ scrawled across it in lurid neon colours.

He actually makes to turn right around and leave before a small influx of people enter, laughing and coughing in the haze. Kylo quickly hugs the walls until he reaches an empty table in the shadows of the front corner of the club, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the sticky, scratched up table in front of him. He rubs his temples, shading his eyes from view and waves away a server before she has the opportunity to ask what he wants to drink.

A screech of microphone feedback whistles through the club and a sturdily built, middle aged man makes to adjust the microphone stand on the stage.

“Alright ladies and gentleman,” he growls with a thick New York accent, “next up tonight we have Takodana’s very own Rey throwing it back with some Old Hollywood for ya.”

Kylo groans weakly to himself and vows to call a cab home to drown his feelings in a bathtub of vodka _in private_ as soon as the club is focussed on this ‘Ray’, probably some grizzled old truck driver looking to scrape the occasional walk-on part when they’re in town.

A slight figure rushes by him and Kylo flinches, shifting his chair to face the wall before the server he waved away clambers up on stage. Kylo’s head is swimming just past the point of pleasantly, his stomach is churning and he thinks if he needed to speak to anyone he’d struggle to express any kind of sentiment beyond ‘yes’, ‘no’ and ‘fuck off’.

So when the young waitress who only tried to do her damn job starts adjusting the stool and microphone stand, Kylo’s gin soaked brain assumes she’s assisting with the stage dressing.

 _Is that sexist?_ he wonders. _Am I sexist? Ray is usually a man’s name isn’t it? Is it sexist to assume that she was a man first? Is it bad to be surprised? I am way too fucking drunk for this._

The young woman squints under the stage lights, a guitar now in her arms and she smiles. Good god she _smiles_.

“Hello everyone!” she greets the room cheerfully. _Oh Christ, she’s_ _happy too_. _And British._ “I’m Rey, and tonight I’m going to be singing Moon River from Breakfast at Tiffany’s because this is the only song I know on the guitar.”

A smattering of applause goes up and Kylo’s leg is jittering under the table, his vision swimming slightly as she strums the opening chords.

And then she starts to sing. Clear and sweet and slightly melancholy, her gaze aimed somewhere up and away from this sticky, smoky dive.

 _If this was a movie,_ Kylo thinks, _this is where the dolly zoom would kick in — tight zoom on the protagonist, eyes widening, background fades into his childhood._

Because that’s exactly what’s happening to Kylo. Suddenly he’s ten years old again, sitting cross-legged in the den, his mouth agape and popcorn forgotten as Audrey Hepburn sits on her fire escape crooning Henry Mancini’s iconic song, her eyes staring at the same, distant future that sad, lost people are looking for.

Ben stays entranced for the entirety of her performance, his exit strategy forgotten in the face of a lovely, slightly blurry face and a voice that sings of childhood in a cruel town. He is jolted out of his revery by far more enthusiastic applause than Rey was greeted with and he joins in, his hands missing the meat of his palm and skittering over his fingers.

Rey hands off her guitar to the MC and hops down to the club floor, walking past Ben’s table and before he knows it, he’s grasping her wrist and saying “Excuse me?”

She glares at him. “Are you ready to order now?”

“No, that’s not what I — I’m Ben,” he blurts out. Up close, what details he can make of Rey’s face are lovely; a sweet little pout currently pursed into a frown, high cheekbones the stage lights are bouncing off.

Rey studies him for a moment and yanks her hand away, unimpressed. “Good for you, Ben.”

Ben jumps to his feet and Rey flinches away. He brings his palms up in what he hopes is a peaceful way, something to get across the sentiment ‘I know my body is far too big for me but I swear to god I’m not gonna crush you underfoot’ and continues to let forth a stream of drunken consciousness.

“No, nonono, what I meant was you’re a really good singer. More than good, you’re fuckin’ _incredible_ , I haven’t felt like that because of someone’s voice since I was a snot-nosed kid and bawling in my parents living room, you’re _so fucking good_ and I thought you should know that. Way better than so many of the goddamn morons in this town,” he gabbles.

_Stop saying ‘fuck’, Ben, you fucking idiot._

Rey’s expression morphs into something akin to bemused understanding. “Maybe it’s just as well I didn’t serve you,” she picks up an empty tray from a nearby table and tucks it under her arm. “How much have you had to drink, mate?”

“A lot,” Ben nods his head, agreeing with a statement she didn’t make. “But not here, actually, it was all party booze,” he waves the thought away like a fly; depressed after-party drinking does _not_ belong in the same conversation as Rey. The more he thinks her name, the more he wants to slap himself for missing the obvious - _of course_ this is Rey, not Ray the truck driver or Raye the barista but Rey with The Voice.

“Sounds like one hell of a party,” she re-ties her small apron, the pockets jangling with change and she narrows her eyes at the $3000 suit jacket he had slung haphazardly on the table. “Where did you come from exactly?” she asks, a distinct note of skepticism in her voice.

“Uhh,” Ben says intelligently. “Parties. A _couple_ of parties,” he clarifies, the creeping feeling of being backed into a corner starting to prickle the back of his neck.

Pink and green spotlights flicker to life and start to paint a path across the club, and Ben misses the moment things click into place for Rey as flares of lurid pink and green pass across his eyes, but he sees the result; her eyes widen a fraction and her pretty mouth drops open ever so slightly in recognition.

“You said your name was Ben?” she asks slowly, barely audible above Top 40 music playing over the speakers. _Maz would_ not _be pleased to hear that in her joint._

“Yep,” he announces, popping the ‘p’. “Ben. Or, ‘Benjamin’ if you’re my mother or her rabbi. Both of whom are gonna be really fuckin’ pissed at me, or not so much ‘pissed’ as ‘sad’ which is honestly so much fucking worse, it’d be easier if she just got really fuckin’ mad like the time I broke her mother’s favourite vase…” he trails off as Rey’s brow furrows in confusion and she opens her mouth to say something --

“Sorry, I know you just got off stage but could I get a water? Just tap or whatever’s closest,” Ben sits back down in his chair - _his tiny fucking chair, christ, Maz might be small but is her furniture built for her size?_ \- and sticks his hand in his jacket pocket, ostensibly searching for something.

Rey recognises the movement as a door shutting on that particular avenue of conversation and mutters a small “Sure thing” before drifting back to the bar.

Did he just…? Was _he_ …?

She shakes her head and pulls a bottle of Perrier out of the fridge, grabbing a glass and haphazardly scooping a few ice cubes in it before making use of her tray and walking back to _his_ table.

She sets the tray down, pushes the empty chair back in and picks up the napkin left under the candle holder. A crisp hundred dollar bill falls out and Rey smiles disbelievingly at the appallingly messy scribble left on the napkin;

 

_For the service and the song._

  
  


*****

  


**Kylo Ren Daily** @KyloRenDaily

Kylo Ren pictured with the other Supporting Actor nominees looking ~very merry~ at the VF party.

IMG.jpg

**Replies  372 . Retweets 1.5k   . Likes 9k**

 

 **Give Kylo Ren his Oscar 2k16** @kylorenlapbaby

Replying to @KyloRenDaily

MY HEART ❤️❤️❤️ LOOK AT HIS LIL FACE HE LOOKS SO PROUD OF MARK. I WOULD GIVE MY KIDNEY FOR A BUDDY COP MOVIE

  


**Kylo Ren’s Spouse** @kylolover888

Replying to @KyloRenDaily @kylorenlapbaby

My skin is clear, my crops are watered, my heart is broken because i stfg @theacademy is just trolling him at this point

 

 **Kylo Ren’s Spouse** @kylolover888

Replying to @KyloRenDaily @kylorenlapbaby @kylolover888

on the upside that double breasted suit looks 👌👌👌

 

 **The Ren Den** @TheRenDen

Replying to @KyloRenDaily @kylorenlapbaby @kylolover888

@TheAcademy can go fuck itself, how the fuck do you not recognise his career best performance like that?

 

 **Give Kylo Ren his Oscar 2k16** @kylorenlapbaby

Replying to @KyloRenDaily @kylorenlapbaby @kylolover888 @TheRenDen

It’s all politics yknow? He doesn’t need a statue from some crusty old white dudes to validate his work, he’ll be getting offers from anyone and everyone in H’wood if he wasn’t already

 

 **Starkiller Knights** @theknightsofskbase

Replying to @KyloRenDaily @kylolover888 @TheRenDen @kylorenlapbaby

Isn’t he contracted to FO studios exclusively? How is he gonna take up any offers like that?

 

 **Movie News Weekly** @movieswithmarvin

Replying to @KyloRenDaily @kylolover888 @TheRenDen @kylorenlapbaby @theknightsofskbase

I think his contract is up iirc, now would be a good time to cut them loose. Onwards and upwards, this way he’ll actually get to pick and choose beyond what Snoke and his buddies say is okay.

**Author's Note:**

> The press release in the blurb and in the upcoming chapter is egregiously ripped from Deadline’s own reporting on the subject of ASiB’s reboot.
> 
> This is a [Dolly Zoom](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dolly_zoom)
> 
> This is the [dress](https://www.net-a-porter.com/gb/en/product/1114083/Alexandre_Vauthier/draped-crystal-embellished-stretch-georgette-gown) Bazine wears.
> 
> Also, I know Bazine is quite often the defacto romantic antagonist or a thorn in the side of Rey and Ben getting together, and she will be in her own little way, but I just wanted to note that despite her very superficial introduction, we'll be looking into things with her in a little more detail later on.  
> The fact that I need to mention this is probably indicative of my shortcomings as a writer, but *shrugs* it's fanfic, I can throw stuff in the footnotes.


End file.
